


My Final Words On The Final Page

by CaptainMinette



Series: Heaven Can Wait (Geraskier Reincarnation/Soulmates AU) [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Dying Confession of Love, Hurt No Comfort, Immortal But Not Invincible Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, in written form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23709100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainMinette/pseuds/CaptainMinette
Summary: He finished the note with a shaky love-heart, the words blurring before his eyes as he coughed, flecking the page with more dark blood. He fell back, too weak to continue writing, and looked at the stars again – he had said, when they first traveled together, that Geralt smelled “of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak”. Gods, had it ever proven true. As darkness crept in around the edges of his vision, he repeated the phrase he'd written again, softly, into the night air, and smiled:“Maybe in another life.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Heaven Can Wait (Geraskier Reincarnation/Soulmates AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707541
Comments: 8
Kudos: 111





	My Final Words On The Final Page

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Maybe In Another Life](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/600553) by crazy-fan-girl-c137. 



"Geralt?"

"Yes, Jaskier?"

"I, ah... I have something I want to tell you - something that I've meant to tell you for some time, actually - but hilariously, or perhaps tragically, I find myself far too shy to say something so personal in such a crowded venue. It's more fit to a night of star-gazing by the lake, anyway. What do you say?"

"I have matters to attend to here first, but I'll meet you there."

*******

Jaskier shed his doublet and boots – he was alone, would be alone until Geralt arrived, and the evening was _so_ balmy and _so_ beautiful, he couldn't _bear_ to be stifled up in the tight outer garments – and sat down on a boulder along the lake shore, cradling his lute and giving it an experimental strum on a G chord. He frowned at it – _ever so slightly out of tune_ – and set about remedying it. Once it was tuned, he went over the newest additions to his songbook – both about Geralt, as had been so often the case of late, although he hadn't yet worked up the courage to reveal his feelings to the witcher. That, he hoped, would change tonight – he had finally planned out how to confess to him, and had managed to organize a meeting someplace he knew they'd both be less nervous. He smiled slightly as he sang, finally daring to truly hope they might stand a chance together – the witcher's demeanor towards him had softened a great deal since the falling-out on the mountain a decade back and their reunion a few years later, and they even shared a bed on their travels now, at least some of the time.  
  


Wait - a _decade_? _Ten whole years_? Gods, had it _really_ been that long already? He was fifty-two now, then. He still looked like a twenty-something, and often wondered if something of Geralt's slow aging had rubbed off on him by association somewhere along the line. Maybe he'd been blessed – or cursed – with it at some point himself? Either way, he didn't mind being a man in his fifties, but if someone had robbed him of ever becoming a “silver fox” to match his White Wolf, he was going to be _furious_.

He was in the middle of a fourth song, or it might have been a fifth – he wasn't counting – when he heard a rustling and a bird call. He glanced around, but didn't see anyone. He could feel his heart racing – he was so nervous, so on-edge, it would take some time to calm down. He pushed through it to finish the song, but before he could reach the end, someone grabbed him from behind:

“What have we here? A little spy?”

Jaskier twisted and strained in his captor's grasp:

“Excuse me! I am neither _little_ nor _a spy_!”

“Ah, _and_ a liar!”

“Not even worth questioning, then,” someone replied, “better just to kill him and move on.”

“No! Wait, please!”

“What's this,” a third voice chimed in, and the lute was ripped roughly from his hands, “looks like a man of many talents!”

Jaskier struggled furiously, flailing his arms and kicking his feet, but it was no use:

“Not the lute! Let – _me_ – **_go_**!”

His fist made contact with something, hard, and he heard one of them shout in surprise and pain, then laugh:

“Feisty little fucker, eh?”

“You're lucky we don't have time, or you might have lived to regret that.”

He didn't even have time to respond before there was a dagger buried hilt-deep just below his ribs. It twisted and sliced sideways, up under his breastbone, and he let out a shocked wheeze, crumpling to the side as he was released. He watched helplessly as one of his assailants (a huge, heavily bearded man in full chainmail) smashed the lute against the boulder, unable to think clearly enough through the pain to protest again. He heard them laughing as they rode away and left him there, bleeding and alone.

It took all the strength he could muster to drag himself back to the boulder and lean against it. He reached over his shoulder with a trembling hand to grasp at the fragments of the lute's neck:

“No...”

His voice sounded strange somehow, distorted, and he recognized with horror the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth – it had been years, but the djinn incident came to mind. He leaned to the side a little, spitting weakly, but it returned with a vengeance, and he clutched at the wound, hearing and feeling it seal and then unseal with a harsh _slurp_ that left him gasping for air – _oh, gods, my lung was definitely hit, then_ – as his hand slipped. He had to leave a note for Geralt, in case he...

_No! Fuck that! I'm not going to die before I tell him! I have to stay awake!_

He forced his eyes open, slumping back a little further against the boulder, and gazed up at the sky. The stars shone crystal-clear against the even blue-black, and he smiled. A perfect spring evening. Hopefully he could manage to hold out just a little longer.

_Please, Geralt... please hurry._

He waited for what felt like hours, but could only have been minutes, holding one hand over the wound. At long last, he groped weakly for his songbook with the other. He chuckled - the one thing he had that could have held information, and they'd left it untouched. Not that he could fault them: he had kept it tucked in his chemise today, where he had thought he could be sure it would be safe from prying eyes and danger as its pages dwindled. It was stained a little at the corner with blood now, but otherwise unharmed. He wrote on the page - _hah, how fitting that it **is** the final page of this book_ \- slightly sloppily with his non-dominant hand:

**_Maybe in another life._ **

He finished the note with a shaky love-heart, the words blurring before his eyes as he coughed, flecking the page with more dark blood. He fell back, too weak to continue writing, and looked at the stars again – he had said, when they first traveled together, that Geralt smelled “of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak”. Gods, had it ever proven true. As darkness crept in around the edges of his vision, he repeated the phrase he'd written again, softly, into the night air, and smiled:

“Maybe in another life.”

His last thought was – 

_Oh, I hope so..._

– his fading consciousness gave him a brief, lifelike vision of Geralt, with one of his rare smiles, then everything went very dark and very quiet.

*******

It was nearing midnight when Geralt arrived at their meeting-place – the moon hung high overhead, and he could hear a screech-owl in the trees not far off as he dismounted. He took a wrapped parcel from the saddle-bag - he'd noticed recently that Jaskier was coming to the end of his songbook, and had taken it upon himself to buy the bard a pretty new one as a gift. Jaskier was leaning against a boulder, his back to the witcher, looking up at the stars, and at first, the only scent was the endearingly familiar, comforting warmth of lavender and chamomile that seemed to follow the bard everywhere. It registered suddenly in Geralt's mind that the whole scene was eerily still – something felt off about it, and the smell of blood and death abruptly followed the soft florals, washing over him like a wave. His slow heart rate picked up slightly, feeling on the instant like it had dropped to the pit of his stomach, and he ran to his friend's side. Jaskier's features were snow-pale in the moonlight, frozen in a soft smile, once-bright blue eyes sightlessly reflecting the stars. A pinkish froth lingered at his lips, one hand loosely tangled in his blood-soaked chemise. Geralt took the bard's other hand in his – it was cold as the boulder it had been resting on. 

Jaskier had been gone for some time already, then. A soul-deep emptiness and guilt overwhelmed Geralt, and he carefully gathered the bard's body into his arms, brushing the vacant eyes shut with an incredible tenderness.

_I should have been here sooner. I should have saved him._

The open songbook, the hastily scrawled writing speckled with now-dried blood, caught the witcher's attention:

**_Maybe in another life - ♥_ **

_In another life? In another life wh – oh._

“Oh, Jaskier... I'm so sorry. I wish I'd known.”

He pressed a kiss to the bard's cold brow, hugging him a little closer. Tears welled in his eyes, and he didn't dare move to brush them away, even as they fell onto Jaskier's face. He didn't know how long he sat there, cradling his could-have-been, should-have-been beloved.

“I swear, no matter how many lifetimes it takes, we'll be together again. I love you. And I know now that I should have said it sooner.”

*******

Geralt of Rivia lived for many, many more years, although he never forgot Jaskier. His bard. His friend. The man he had loved. When he finally, inevitably, as all witchers eventually did, slowed down just a little too much – returning alive from the hunt, but succumbing to unexpectedly severe wounds and a creeping world-weariness that night – the belongings he left behind contained a note with instructions for where to send them (he had made up with Yennefer decades ago, and they were on good terms, if nothing more – she was the one he would have to trust to keep all of their legacies, now), along with three unusual things.

_1.) A very old set of lute strings, carefully preserved, along with some fragments of the instrument.  
2.) A small pouch with two bottles of scented oil (lavender and chamomile, always, in memory of the bard)  
  
_and  
  
_3.) A pair of books. There were decades of brief, near-daily letters to a deceased might-have-been partner in the larger and more decorative book, and pages of poetry and lyrics in the other, along with a clumsily scrawled phrase, the last note in the poetry book by its original owner:_

**_Maybe in another life. - ♥_ **

Fresh flecks of blood had mingled with the old, rusty spots, and a second phrase in different handwriting:

**_I had matters to attend to here first, my love, but I'll meet you there._ **


End file.
